


Public Relations(hips)

by bayleaf



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Bandom - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-23
Updated: 2007-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-02 19:10:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bayleaf/pseuds/bayleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Pete awhile to catch on, sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Public Relations(hips)

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first solo story I've actually finished since 2001. I couldn't have done it without giddygeek, who encouraged (read: bullied) me during the writing process, and then spent hours doing a careful line-by-line beta. May I never again hear the words, "Okay! Now, let's start again from the beginning." Thanks, too, to strangecobwebs, who beta-read an early draft, and to misspamela, who greatly improved the pacing by pointing out it needed more Patrick. I couldn't have done it without you guys!

Pete thought the first time he kissed Patrick was on stage, sometime in late 2000 or maybe early 2001. He had a vague memory of sweating under the spotlights while a room full of scene kids shouted his lyrics back at the band. It was intense, the bass reverberating in Pete's chest and the feel of Andy on drums a constant beat in the floorboards. It was one of those nights where everything was just right and Pete felt emotions so strong he couldn't keep them in. He looked at Patrick clutching the mic stand, bawling out the chorus, then there was the taste of salt and the feel of Patrick's voice vibrating under his lips, and nothing else.

It became just another Pete Wentz thing, like the mood swings and keeping edge and the regular changes in hairstyle. Patrick mostly didn't complain, but when he wasn't caught up in a performance he'd blush and Pete could feel the pale skin heating up against his face. That rush of blood to Patrick's face was like waving a cape in front of a bull; Pete made a point of making Patrick blush whenever he could.

He kissed Patrick at a show in California, and the girls in the audience shrieked their approval; Patrick turned his head slightly and grinned at Pete for the last line of the chorus. He kissed Patrick at a show in Idaho, even though Pete looked over his shoulder the entire time they were packing up the van, after. He kissed Patrick at a show in Chicago, then whooped and took a running jump off the stage. Patrick laughed right into the microphone and said, 'Hey, if you happen to see our bassist crowd surfing out there, could you maybe give him a push back our way? We've got a couple more songs to do." The crowd roared in response.

Pete asked once if Patrick minded. Patrick glanced at him from under his hat brim. "Nah," he said, "it's cool," and he smiled. Pete grinned back. "Cool," he said, then wandered away to check his phone for new text messages.

Pete could only remember one time that Patrick shoved him away. It was during a grueling tour schedule, one or two gigs a night with a solid ten or twelve hours of driving between each. They all took turns at the wheel while everyone else slept in the back. Three weeks of that and they were running on nothing but caffeine and the post-show hit of adrenaline. The only time they were really awake was on stage.

Pete got a call from the club manager to see if they could stick around after the show for an interview. It was strictly small-time, a local rag that was only one step up from a college paper, but Pete figured any press was good press. The five of them sat around on folding chairs in a tiny room at the back of the venue; it stank of piss and cigarette smoke and it had to be eight million degrees in there.

The reporter was young and eager to look official as she set up a tape deck and hit 'record.' Joe was already snoring in the corner. Andy had first shift behind the wheel, so he was chugging coke from a two liter bottle while they talked. Beside him, Patrick listed slightly to the left and blinked slowly, struggling to stay awake for the conversation. He looked impossibly young. Without thinking, Pete leaned over and kissed him on the corner of the mouth; second kiss of the night, it was the first time he'd ever kissed Patrick offstage. Patrick pulled back, looking startled. He socked Pete in the shoulder and told him to fuck off already.

The reporter didn't print that part. She didn't mention the incident at all. No one else did either.

***

Someone snapped a photo of Pete kissing Patrick's neck during one of the Warped 2005 performances. Pete stumbled over it when he was reading coverage of the tour. The picture was grainy but they were clearly identifiable. Patrick's head was tilted back and his eyes were closed. Pete was mouthing the spot just below his jaw. Joe was a blur behind them, caught mid-spin. The caption read Fall Out Boy Bassist Congratulates Band mate on Good Performance.

Pete stared at it for a long time, wondering why it pissed him off. The headline - which was fucking lame - made the moment seem so stupid.

"Hey, Patrick," he said. When he got no response, he nudged Patrick with his toe. Patrick sighed and pulled his headphones off. He raised his eyebrows; that particularly 'fucking what?' expression had become familiar after hours in the back of the van.

Pete shoved the paper at him. Patrick glanced at it for thirty seconds and said, "Um. That's cool. You gonna send it to your mom?"

It wasn't the response Pete had expected. "Cool? Cool?" His voice was perhaps a shade sharper than he'd intended, and Patrick winced. "They missed the whole point!"

"There's a point?" Patrick looked blank, already glancing back at his laptop screen. "Like, more than an image thing?"

"Yeah, dude," Joe said from the kitchen, "the point is, Pete's a freak!" and he cackled like it was the funniest thing ever. Pete made a mental note to hide his stash.

 

But even Pete couldn't think of what the point was, which was even more annoying than the stupid article. Pete sneered at the picture, but in the end he clipped it out of the paper and sent it to his mom like Patrick had suggested. He knew she'd appreciate it. She kept shit like that in a scrapbook.

***

After that, Pete still kissed Patrick on stage, but he made a point of kissing him offstage more often, too. He thought it would get a rise out of somebody - homophobia was alive and well, after all - but it seemed like nobody gave a shit about a couple of red-carpet smooches on the cheek. He had to spend some serious time googling before he even turned up some pictures on a couple of message boards.

Meanwhile, everywhere he looked there were youtube slide shows of dudes kissing. Half of those seemed to feature shots of Gerard and Frank, or members of Panic! in various combinations, which somehow seemed deeply unfair. Panic! fielded the gay question all the time, and the guys in My Chem had a standard response about how the punk and hardcore scene had been really homophobic or just intolerant of guys being affectionate, and so they'd decided to go and do their own thing.

Pete, in contrast, got to field questions about his dick, the time he popped a handful of Ativan, and his questionable taste in women. It was like there was only one set of interview questions in the world. He had a sliding feeling of deja vu during every interview, particularly the ones he did over the phone.

"We're talking to Pete Wentz of Fall Out Boy. Pete, I've gotta ask, do you manscape?" the announcer's voice was tinny in his Sidekick, and Pete thumbed up the volume so he could hear over the dull roar of bus tires on pavement.

"Uh, yeah," he said, barely paying attention. This question had come up so often since the photos hit the net that he'd developed a set patter. "I do, actually. Although I woulda done a better job trimming the hedges if I'd known millions of people would be looking, you know?"

The interviewer giggled in his ear. Across the aisle, Patrick rolled his eyes at Pete and mimed shooting the phone. Pete grinned at him, shrugging. There was more babble on the phone, and then the inevitable question about how the group got their name. When Pete started explaining about some guy at a show yelling it out, Patrick muttered, 'Jesus' and tugged his headphones into place. He curled up on the couch facing away from Pete. Pete spent the rest of the interview staring at the pale skin on the back of Patrick's neck and the jut of his spine.

The interviewer wrapped up by saying how nice it was that the members of Fall Out Boy seemed really close, how they seemed almost like brothers, and thanked Pete for his time. Pete blurted out, "Patrick and me, it's like bigger than that," but she cut to commercial without comment and they were done.

Patrick pulled an earphone off one ear and looked at Pete over his shoulder. "What about you and me?"

"Nothing," Pete muttered and retreated to his bunk in a black mood. He wrapped himself in a hoodie and sulked for the rest of the day.

***

The brooding lasted until morning. Pete spent the time staring at the dark wall of his bunk and meditating on road noise. Patrick poked his head in once. "Hey, you feeling okay?" he asked, brows drawn down. Pete turned away and muttered, "fine" in a tone even he recognized as huffy.

Patrick said, "Just checking, sorry," and backed out of the bunk, pulling the curtains closed as he left. A few minutes later, Pete heard Joe asking, "So what's his deal?" out in the living area and the murmur of Patrick's reply.

He fell asleep eventually, lulled by Andy's barely-audible deep breaths from the bunk above him. Around eleven, Pete woke up to a revelation. What he needed was to step it up a notch, really take this thing to the next level. It seemed important that people pay attention to Patrick and him, their friendship. He wanted someone to get it.

Pete didn't waste any time wondering why.

***

Two nights later, they staggered into a hotel lobby. Patrick had his laptop bag slung over his shoulder, and was weighted down with a guitar case in one hand. Pete had a single duffle. Dirty or someone would get the rest of his stuff. Andy was already at the elevators, one hand on the door to keep it open, when Pete caught sight of a photographer. He'd seen the guy before, was pretty sure he worked for a sleazy tabloid.

Pete hadn't gotten where he was by ignoring opportunity when it knocked, so he turned quickly and stepped right in front of Patrick, who barely stopped himself from ramming into Pete.

Patrick took a step backwards. "What the fu-" he said, but didn't get the rest of the sentence out. Pete put one hand on Patrick's cheek, the other on the back of his neck and leaned in to kiss him. Patrick's lips were dry and chapped. Pete licked delicately at the seam of Patrick's lips until Patrick pressed closer and finally, finally opened his mouth.

All the buzz of sound in the back of Pete's head shut itself off. There was nothing but Patrick pressed against him, Patrick's tongue in his mouth, Patrick's neck against his palm. Joe shoved his way between them, cursing Pete under his breath.

"That's enough, Pete, you jackass. Jesus!" Joe said, herding Pete towards the elevator. Pete dimly registered a flashbulb going off, which explained the sparks he'd seen behind his eyelids when Patrick started kissing back. He'd forgotten about the press guy. He glanced over and saw at least three hotel employees staring at him. The girl behind the counter had her phone out and she snapped another picture as he passed.

And then they were in the elevator, Joe smacked Pete upside the back of the head, and the moment was past. Pete glanced at Patrick, who looked back at him with wide eyes. Pete shrugged and smiled. "Sorry, dude," he said, "I saw the camera and, you know."

For just a second Patrick looked disappointed, but then he smiled and Pete decided he'd been mistaken about what he'd seen. "Yeah, I figured it was something like that." Patrick's voice was light, casual, which always made Pete suspicious. He looked closer - maybe Patrick was pissed at him after all - but just as he started to say, "Patrick, hey, are you okay?", the doors opened onto the fifth floor and Patrick stepped out.

"I'm gonna room with Hurley," Patrick said, already halfway up the hall. "Maybe work on the bridge to the new song."

***

The pictures were published, but they didn't create the media buzz that Pete had expected. If anything, there was a general sense of 'ho hum, two emo-boys kissing, must be a Tuesday.' Fucking Perez Hilton posted the pictures with commentary about how refreshing it was to have straight allies in the music industry. Pete stared at his screen in disbelief. For some reason, the post felt like a kick in the teeth.

At least there was coverage this time. It was a step in the right direction, but overall it was very disappointing. Weirdly, Pete felt angry about it. He could kind of see the press ignoring him, because he was kind of like that, but Patrick? Patrick didn't go around making out with random guys. Patrick was hot stuff, and the fucking press should be all over the photos.

Pete was offended on Patrick's behalf. It was for Patrick that he had to try harder.

***

'Trying harder' mostly consisted of kissing Patrick every chance he got.

Pete kissed Patrick before going on stage, "for good luck." Patrick pulled on the brim of his trucker's hat, glanced down at the floor and then looked at Pete through the screen of his eyelashes. "I thought that's what the high five was for," he said.

"Well, yeah," Pete said, "sure. Sure it is. But you're extra lucky, so."

Patrick didn't look convinced. Joe made a big show of kissing Andy. "Hurley, you're totally my good luck charm," he yelled, pressing a loud, smacking kiss on Andy's head. "I love you, man!" Andy gave him the finger and elbowed him away.

When they did the high five a few minutes later, Pete whapped the back of Joe's head, just because.

***

They fucking killed. The crowd was electric, the energy in the room was amazing. Patrick's voice was strong and steady, Joe didn't bloody himself or anyone else while thrashing around the stage, Andy was a fucking god on the drums and Pete didn't fuck up the chords like he usually did.

"You see?" he yelled, hauling Andy into a hug and pounding his back. "Patrick's extra lucky!"

He told Joe and Dirty, too. "Patrick's the man!" he said, "Did you see him out there? He's the fucking man."

Patrick smiled at the floor and rolled his eyes a little bit.

As soon as they staggered, drenched in sweat, back into the dressing room, Pete shoved Patrick up against the door and climbed him like a tree. Patrick squirmed and said, "wait. Pete, Pete -" until Andy said, "Jesus, get a room already," and pushed by them to get to the showers. Pete felt the familiar heat of Patrick's blush and he pressed his face into Patrick's shoulder and laughed.

***

On the red carpet at a Vh1 awards show, Pete gave Patrick a little peck on the lips and kept an arm around his shoulder the entire time they were in front of the camera. He didn't move his arm even once they were inside; Patrick stepped away, muttering something about going to get a drink. Pete would have protested, but Ashlee Simpson came up right then to give him a hug and tell him about her new project. By the time he thought to look around for Patrick, he was lost in the crowd.

Pictures of Pete and Patrick standing on the red carpet were posted on the usual websites, and redistributed to thousands of message boards and MySpace sites; the kiss didn't make it into the tabloids, much less the mainstream entertainment press. On the other hand, Pete and Ashlee were a hot item. Everyone from gossip columnists to US Weekly published tittering reports about them hanging out.

Pete crumpled up the magazine in his hand and flung it towards the trash can. Of course the thing that mattered didn't make it into print.

***

At Much Music, Pete sat on Patrick's lap and wrapped him up in a huge hug. "I love this guy!" he told the VJ.

"They're married, you know," Joe said, and giggled.

"Unofficially, of course," Andy added. "It's illegal in the States."

"Ours is a love that dare not speak its name," Patrick said, "A real tragedy of our times." He managed a halfway convincing tragic expression.

"You should get married in Canada!" the VJ chirped.

"Yeah," Pete said, "I hear that it's legal here." He got down on one knee and took Patrick's hand. "Whaddya say, Patrick, you want to marry me?"

"I don't know. Where're my diamonds?" Patrick smiled big for the camera as he aimed a kick at Pete's leg.

Pete dodged the blow easily and moved to lay his head in Patrick's lap. "They're still coal. But they're coming, I swear."

Joe laughed like an idiot. The VJ looked a little bemused, but moved right on to a question about their musical influences without commenting.

***  
Even the fansites, usually rife with rumors and conjecture, were silent. There was plenty of discussion about Patrick's weight and Andy's tattoos and Joe's amazing growing Jew-fro. Pete's dick got mentioned almost as often as the album, which was par for the course, and at least three posters talked about how awesome it would be if Patrick hooked up with Frank from My Chem.

On one message board, a kid posted something about 'Pete and Patrick are so gay for each other!' and was flamed by dozens of fans, all of whom insisted that Pete was just a make-out king and it didn't really mean anything.

It was, Pete realized, incredibly annoying; people would believe everything they read. Who cared if he'd said it, that didn't make it true.

***

Pete noticed everything about Patrick these days. Patrick's thighs filled out his tight jeans in a way that was just plain distracting, much like the pull of his t-shirt across his shoulder blades when he reached for his laptop. During practice, the stretch of Patrick's fingers when he was changing chords and the sharp bend of his wrist caught Pete's attention and Pete couldn't look away. He fucked up his cue, and they had to start the song over from the beginning.

He figured it was the insomnia; lack of sleep got to him sometimes.

***

When he did sleep, Pete had a recurring dream about Patrick stroking his fingers over his guitar strings and smiling up at Pete from under the shadow of his hat brim. Nothing happened in the dream; it was just Patrick and his guitar. Every morning Pete woke up feeling like there was something he'd meant to do, but he couldn't quite remember; something he'd meant to say, but the words were trapped on the tip of his tongue.

***

The damning photo was published in the National Enquirer under a banner headline that screamed, 'Singer's Secret Gay Lover Revealed!'

Pete wasn't in the picture.

Travis had his hand wrapped around Patrick's neck. His hand span was so large that his thumb was nestled in the groove right below Patrick's ear. Patrick's hand was fisted in Travis' shirt, apparently hauling him closer. Both of them had their eyes closed and if you looked closely at the spot where their lips met, you could see the tiniest flash of tongue. Within the week, Us and Star published the picture with variations on the same story.

The PR chick slapped the magazine down on the conference table and Patrick jumped a little bit.

"I expect this kind of thing from him," she said, pointing at Pete, "But you?" Patrick hunched in on himself and turned his head away. He had his hood pulled up until only his hat brim was visible.

She went right on talking at him. "Do you know the kind of damage this could do?"

"Hey -" Andy started to protest, at the same time Pete said, "Look, just...give us a minute here, okay? Go out in the hall and take five."

She looked like she was going to argue until Pete snarled, "I will personally fire your ass if you don't leave this room right fucking now," and then she went, muttering.

Nobody said anything for a full minute. Pete watched the seconds tick away on a battered wall clock that reminded him somehow of high school. Finally, Andy cleared his throat and said, "Hey, don't sweat it, Patrick. They stopped talking about Pete's dick. This'll die down in a bit."

"What are you talking about?" Joe said. "They never stopped talking about Pete's dick."

"Shut up, Trohman," Pete muttered, "You're not fucking helping."

"I'm just saying," Andy tried again, "so what if people still talk about Pete's dick. Nobody really cares any more."

Pete spluttered an offended, "Hey!"

"Fuck off, Pete. It's a great dick. We all care deeply about your dick, okay? You are such a girl." Andy rolled his eyes. "But it isn't like it was in the beginning, right?"

"Right, well." Pete said, mollified. "Yeah."

"See?" Andy turned back to Patrick. "At least no one will be asking if you manscape."

Joe gave Patrick an interested look. "Hey, do you manscape?"

Which was when Patrick's cell phone started ringing. Patrick turned from glaring at Andy and Joe to look at the display. After the third time Patrick yelped, "No comment!" and disconnected the call, he turned the ringer off and stopped answering. All four of them stared morbidly as the screen lit up again and again, signaling incoming calls. Patrick leaned over to check caller ID each time, just in case. Every time he sat back, looking sick. The last time, he said, "It's Travis," but made no move to answer.

That was it for Pete. He grabbed the phone off the table and heaved it at the wall as hard as possible. It shattered with a surprisingly unsatisfying shower of parts. He sat there, breathing hard, hands clenched; there was nothing else to throw. He was painfully aware of Joe and Andy staring, surprised, and of Patrick, who hadn't looked at him or even flinched.

What Pete really wanted was to punch Travis in the face, to feel his lip split against his grill. He wanted to wrap his hands around Patrick's throat so bad, he could almost see the bruise he'd leave right where Travis had rested his thumb. God, he wanted to beat the shit out of whoever the fuck leaked the photos in the first place. If he didn't walk out of that room, Pete knew he'd do something he'd regret, and for once that mattered. He shoved away from the table and nearly ran into the hall, tugging his hood up and shoving his hands into his pockets.

The door slammed open behind him and Pete turned around. It was Patrick, of course, glaring at him. Patrick's hat was askew, his glasses crooked, and he looked tired.

Shit.

Pete instantly felt like a tool.

Some things got to him every time, and Patrick upset was at the top of the list. He took a step forward without thinking about about the dangers of Patrick being angry with him.

"What the fuck," Patrick snarled, "is your fucking problem?"

Pete stopped in his tracks and took a deep breath, almost relieved. If this got ugly and ruined everything, Patrick would be at least partly responsible. He snapped back, "What's my problem? My problem is you on the cover of a hundred tabloids with your tongue down a guy's throat!"

Patrick took a step closer. His face flushed a deep red, the color that meant Patrick was about thirty seconds away from throwing punches. Pete took a hasty step back, just in case.

"I don't believe you," Patrick said, and his voice sounded like day 200 of nonstop touring. "There are pictures all over the place of you kissing guys, of you kissing me. I just, I don't get why you're so pissed."

"I'm fucking pissed because it should've been me!" Pete yelled, then he stopped.

The truth was like a punch to his gut, it should've been him. He stared at Patrick, who was caught up in his own rant and didn't seem to notice that something huge had just happened.

"It should have been you? What, in the tabloids?" Patrick snorted. "Fuck you, Pete. I didn't want to steal your thunder, I was just trying to have a fucking life!"

Jesus, did Patrick really think he was that much of an asshole? Pete rubbed his hand over his chest, which actually hurt; he couldn't deal with that, not on top of everything else. "You know what," he said, "I can't. I can't do this, right now. I've gotta-" He turned to go.

Patrick made a choked, outraged sound and then said, "Fine! And you know what? Fuck you anyway." He yanked open the door to an empty office and slammed it behind him; Pete winced and walked away.

***

In the morning, when Pete had chilled out a little and it didn't feel like the world was ending anymore, he called Patrick. Some chick's recorded voice politely informed him that the number had been disconnected. He hung up and went through his texts, his missed calls, his voicemail: no new number for Patrick.

He called up Andy, who said, "Yeah, man, he had to change it, the reporters, it was insane." But Andy refused to give him the new number because "Patrick said he'd kill me with my own drumsticks, and I believed him. You know what Patrick's like when he's pissed off." Pete did know, and he knew no amount of whining would get the number out of Andy. He did the next best thing.

It took some work to get Patrick's digits out of Joe. Well, it took a bag of weed, some rolling paper, and a lighter but Pete had to make a phone call and then wait for the stuff, so that counted.

Joe insisted on a taste test before he gave up the goods. He slouched beside the pool and took a contemplative drag on the spliff. "You should try talking to him," he told Pete wisely.

"Yeah, thanks," Pete said, not resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Joe exhaled slowly and watched the smoke dissipate before he pulled his phone out of his hoodie and handed it over.

Pete went inside to place the call from Joe's phone, just in case. He paced through the living room and kitchen while it rang. Patrick picked up on the fourth ring. Pete stopped walking and said, "Patrick-" but Patrick interrupted.

"Trohman's a dead man," he said. "Pete, I'm dealing with things, all right? I'll talk to you later." He hung up. Pete stood in his hallway with Joe's phone in his hand and a sick feeling in his stomach. Maybe it was the end of the world, after all.

***

By dinnertime, Pete had texted two songs worth of lyrics to Patrick's phone, talked to Andy twice more and spent at least an hour freaking out at Joe, who was too baked to give him shit about being a twelve-year-old girl. When Patrick didn't text so much as a 'STFU' in response, Pete started to really worry. This could be epic levels of bad. This could be end-of-the-group, VH1 Behind The Music bad. Worse, Patrick might never talk to him again.

He figured if he could just get Patrick alone for five minutes so he could explain, Patrick would understand and he'd cut Pete some slack. That was just the way they worked. Besides, Pete was kind of worried about him. He'd heard two phone interviews and the MTV News report about Patrick and Travis, and figured things had to be sucking pretty hard right about now.

He figured if he couldn't get to Patrick, Patrick would have to come to him. Since that didn't seem like it was about to happen, he enlisted some trustworthy help.

"I dunno," Dirty said, scratching his belly. "You sure that's such a good idea?"

"It's just a little practical joke," Pete said, getting desperate. "Look, I'll pay you fifty."

Dirty shrugged and snagged the bills that Pete held out to him. "Alright, man. I'll have him here in an hour."

***

Pete heard the sound of tires screaming against pavement and what sounded like Dirty shouting. He moved toward the door in time to catch, "PRESENTS, BITCH!" and then the roar of engine disappearing down the drive.

When Pete opened the door, he saw Patrick rumpled and barefoot in the act of picking his hat up off the ground. He was so red in the face that Pete worried for a second he was having a heart attack. He glared at Pete through narrow eyes. He seemed to be thinking about places to hide the body, but this was the best chance Pete was likely to get so he gestured inside and said, "You want to...?"

Patrick snapped, "No, I don't want to." He ground his teeth and glared before shoving past Pete and stomping into the living room. "Motherfucker took my fucking phone," he said and held his hand out, expectantly. There was a smudge of dirt on his wrist.

Pete stared stupidly at it until Patrick finally said, "Give me your damn phone so I can call someone to come pick me up." He dropped his hand to his side, fingers closing into a fist.

Pete looked down at the floor. He couldn't ask, he wouldn't.

"Someone like Travis?" he asked, and then mentally kicked himself for being a pussy bitch. When he glanced up, Patrick was staring at him like he was insane.

"I don't call Travis when I need help, you asshole. I call you," he said.

"Patrick...I'm right here," Pete said, but he worked his Sidekick out of his front pocket and held it out.

Patrick glared at him, flushed and angry. He still looked furious, but his voice was softer when he said, "Then I guess I don't know what to do."

Pete's heart started slamming in his chest. He had no words for this. Give him a ballpoint, a blank notebook and some time alone and he could have written three cheesy love songs, but face-to-face with Patrick he came up empty. Patrick watched him for maybe a minute, before he shook his head. Pete could feel his last chance slipping away while he stood there searching for words. He took a deep breath and blurted out, "It wasn't about the publicity, what I said before." He shoved his hands into his pockets and shifted uncomfortably. "I mean, you were kinda right that I was jealous, but not about that."

Patrick folded his arms across his chest and said nothing, waiting for him to go on.

Pete hunched his shoulders a little and fixed his gaze on the floor. "I meant that I wished it was me. Kissing you." He glanced up to see Patrick's face. He looked blank.

"You kiss me all the time," he said.

Pete shook his head. "No, I mean for real." He poked at the fraying edges of a hole in the hem of his hoodie and watched Patrick out of the corner of his eye, trying to gauge his reaction.

Patrick relaxed slightly, dropping his hands down to his sides. "So why wasn't it you?" he said, sounding frustrated. "I mean, it could've been, if you'd said something."

Pete jerked his head up, startled. "But I couldn't say anything," he said, "I didn't know until it wasn't me." Patrick stared at him, looking surprised, like he couldn't actually believe Pete hadn't known. Pete stood there, helpless, willing Patrick to believe him.

Patrick shook his head and sighed. "That's because you're an idiot," he said, but he didn't sound angry. He sighed again and pulled the brim of his cap lower over his eyes, turning to wander toward the window. He said casually, "I thought maybe you were playing with me. But I guess you were just being stupid." The tone, the words, it was so fake. Pete knew when Patrick was being nonchalant because he was nervous as hell.

Pete licked his lips and took the chance that Patrick was pissy, but not kill-Pete-and-hide-the-body angry. He closed the distance between them and slowly wrapped Patrick up in a hug. "Like that's a surprise," Pete said. Patrick huffed out a laugh and said, "Yeah." Pete clung to him tightly and rested his face against the back of Patrick's shoulder.

They stood in silence for awhile. Pete listened to Hemingway's snuffling snores across the room, a counter-beat to the radio playing in his bedroom. Patrick sighed, and finally said, "Today fucking sucked. Like, I never wanted to have that conversation with my mom."

Pete squeezed Patrick's shoulder in answer.

"And Travis, fuck." Patrick leaned back just a little, resting against Pete. "I mean, it wasn't even a thing, but now it really, really isn't a thing and it sucks more than I thought it would, you know?" Pete made an agreeing noise but didn't say anything. His knees felt weak with relief. He pressed a tiny kiss against Patrick's shoulder.

"And you." Patrick gesticulated wildly. "You're always...except not, and I figured it was just, you know-" He made a frustrated noise and stopped.

"No, it." Pete shook his head. "I thought it was just, you know, but I was wrong." He took a deep breath. "It wasn't just anything," he said and slid a hand down over Patrick's dick.

Patrick gasped; Pete felt the vibration in his mouth, where he was sucking on Patrick's neck. Patrick flailed, but Pete had one arm around his chest, the other at his crotch and he didn't have room to maneuver. Pete ran his tongue up Patrick's neck to that spot right under his ear, which he thought was maybe his favorite place in the whole world.

This time when he kissed it, Patrick shivered and moaned, and Pete pressed against his back. Pete didn't know what else to say. 'I dream about you,' was so corny. He didn't say that to the girls he dated. 'I want you. You turn me on,' was so...stilted and weird. "Please," he whispered instead, breathing the word against that spot on Patrick's neck. "Just...let me do this." And when Patrick made a noise, high up in his throat, Pete said, "I want to do this, so bad," and Patrick shuddered and thrust against Pete's hand.

Pete mirrored the movement, nudging his hips against Patrick's ass. Making a move on Patrick felt a lot like jumping from the second floor balcony into a crowd and hoping they wouldn't let him hit the floor. He was breathless from adrenaline. Pete stroked his hand across Patrick's chest and pressed closer.

Patrick struggled for a moment. Pete thought he was trying to get away, but the second Pete loosened his hold, Patrick turned around and kissed him. He touched Pete's face, his hair, the small of his back. He shoved one thigh between Pete's legs, and Pete groaned around Patrick's tongue.

Patrick tugged at Pete's hoodie and t-shirt until Pete broke the kiss to yank them off over his own head, inside out and tangled together. Patrick threw his shirt onto the pile and moved right back in, fingers pulling at Pete's belt. When he got Pete's fly down, Patrick shoved Pete hard against the wall and threaded his fingers through Pete's, pinning Pete's arm over his head.

"We could've had this," he said, breathless, and worked his other hand into Pete's open pants.

Pete gasped, "fuck," when Patrick's fingertips -- callused and rough from his guitar strings -- slid over his dick. He jerked at the touch and spread his legs a little wider.

Patrick let go of Pete's hand and pinched Pete's nipple. Pete threw his head back and thrust into Patrick's hand.

"Yeah?" Patrick asked.

Pete said, "Do it again, come on," and Patrick did; the vicious twist shot through Pete's nerve endings and his whole body shuddered. Pete couldn't stop the high-pitched noise that escaped his mouth. He grabbed at Patrick and his fingers skidded over the sweat-slick skin at the small of Patrick's back all the way up to his shoulder blades. They were pressed so close that Patrick's knuckles brushed Pete's belly on every upstroke. It was hard, a little bit rough and totally perfect.

Pete had barely gotten into the rhythm when Patrick dropped to his knees and shoved Pete's jeans down around his thighs. He leaned in and licked Pete's belly and Pete clenched his hands on Patrick's shoulders. It was probably too tight, but it was hard to let go when Patrick was tonguing his tattoo. Pete was so sensitive it almost hurt, but not in a bad way. His legs trembled at every light touch and he was actually grateful when Patrick mostly left his dick alone because he wanted this to last for more than four minutes.

Patrick sucked on Pete's hip bone instead, delicately traced the crease of skin where Pete's leg joined his body. He nudged Pete's legs wider and ducked down. Pete felt a groan a lodge in his throat when Patrick started mouthing the inside of his thigh.

"Shit," he said in a breathy voice, "Patrick-" Patrick glanced up through his eyelashes and smiled, just like in Pete's dream. He licked a hot stripe up Pete's cock and Pete's knees gave up the ghost. He started to slide down the wall, but Patrick braced him with two hands on his hips. He waited until he was sure Pete was looking, and then he closed his eyes and wrapped his lips around the head of Pete's dick. He took one hand off Pete's hip and slid it down his chest, into his own pants.

The sight of Patrick sucking Pete's dick and totally blissed out was so hot it hurt. Pete knocked Patrick's hat off and got one hand in Patrick's hair. Patrick groaned around Pete's cock, so Pete tugged until they had a whole hair-pulling, moaning pattern going on and it was working for Pete. It was really awesome and it was going to get him off really soon and then Patrick pulled off.

"Christ, Pete," he said, gulping air, "I've wanted to do this since I was sixteen."

Pete had a mental picture of Patrick back then, soft round cheeks and that mouth, and that was it, he was fucking done. He grabbed his dick, rocking into his fist until he finished shooting. Patrick lifted his hand to swipe a finger through the mess on Pete's belly. The second he let go of Pete's hips, Pete slumped down to the floor, panting.

"Fuck, I don't want to know how you learned that," he said, and pulled Patrick into a kiss. Patrick groaned into Pete's mouth. He knee-walked closer until he was straddling Pete's lap, bracing himself with one hand on the wall behind Pete's head, the other sliding into his own jeans.

"You're so -" he muttered, words muffled around Pete's tongue. He rocked his hips a little, rubbing against Pete's stomach, open zipper biting into Pete's skin. He tipped his head back and pushed up into his own hand, moaning. Pete pressed open mouthed kisses against the tight stretch of Patrick's throat and whispered, "Let me," against his skin.

Pete worked his hand into Patrick's pants and entwined their fingers. Patrick gasped and shook when Pete squeezed, just a little, on the up-stroke.The soft skin of Patrick's dick was already slick with pre-come. With each stroke, Pete felt wiry hair tickling his wrist. "So, no manscaping, then?" he said.

Patrick said, "Fuck you," and then he caught his breath and twisted his hips into the next stroke. Pete stared up at him. He could imagine it, spreading his legs wide, hooking one heel over Patrick's hip and watching Patrick's face go slack with pleasure. Or no, maybe on his hands and knees with Patrick kneeling behind him and hauling him back into each thrust until Pete was writhing and begging, yes.

"You want to?" Pete wasn't joking at all now. "I'd totally let you."

Patrick shivered and took his hand off the wall so he could cup Pete's neck. He kissed Pete softly once, twice, and then he licked delicately at the seam of Pete's lips. Pete gripped Patrick's ass with his free hand, rocking him into each stroke of their hands. Patrick groaned into his mouth and kissed harder; it was hot and a little bit sloppy. Pete sucked on Patrick's tongue, humming in approval. Patrick pulled away to take a breath and Pete murmured, "Come on, come on." Pete moved their hands faster, tightening his grip; Patrick's thighs tensed and he started to shake against Pete with every stroke. Pete breathed in every one of Patrick's moans.

Patrick gasped, and he dropped his head on Pete's shoulder. The hot splatter of Patrick's come hitting Pete's chest made Pete's dick twitch. He was not getting it up again soon, but fuck he wished he could. He wanted to blow Patrick, roll him over and lick him open, then slide his dick up inside and fuck him slowly. He wanted everything, right now, no waiting. He had so many ideas but all he could really do was hold on.

He wrapped his arms tightly around Patrick and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his neck. Patrick leaned against Pete, sweating and gasping. He wouldn't stop touching Pete; he brushed Pete's sweaty hair back off his forehead, stroked his other hand up and down Pete's side like he was petting a cat. Pete clutched at Patrick's thigh and arched into each touch; he kissed Patrick's shoulder, his jaw, his lips until Patrick pulled back, and punched him lightly in the arm.

"Seriously," he said, "since I was sixteen. I can't believe you didn't know."

Pete knew he was grinning like a fool, but he couldn't really help himself. "Yeah, well, sometimes I'm kind of an asshole," Pete said, and Patrick laughed until Pete pulled him down for another kiss.

-END-


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